


and so you destroyed everything

by gongji



Category: Shin Sangokumusou | Dynasty Warriors, Sān guó yǎn yì | Romance of the Three Kingdoms - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Analysis, Character Study, Gen, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gongji/pseuds/gongji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Zhong Hui, and you are the Chosen One.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so you destroyed everything

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guMUqyNFzg8/) this fic was written to

_“Study without thought is vain;_  
_thought without study is dangerous.”_

_— Analects 2.15_

 

* * *

 

You were born on a day when the sun shone brightest in the sky.

It was a sign from the Heavens themselves, they said, they told you, they convinced you. You were _chosen_ to be the best, the smartest, brighter than the very sun you were born under. You were fated to hold the reins of future. They say your mother dreamed of a _qilin_ the night before you were born – the sign of a scholar, they claimed, in the very footsteps of Confucius himself.

Your mother held you in her arms and called you the _Chosen One_ with a smile. You were smiling, too. Her lips curve and bend gracefully when she says your name. _Zhong_ , the surname of your father, your mother’s voice makes it sound like gentle ringing bells chiming in the wind. _Hui_ , your chosen name for her chosen son, with the future in your hands, on your shoulders, in your eyes... You look up at your mother and her flowing hair shines in the sunlight like a dark honey, and her eyes radiate her joy in sparkling tears. You have never seen anything so beautiful.

You were raised to follow in your father’s footsteps. When you hold the _Yijing_ for the first time it is a heavy weight in your small hands. You do not understand the first time you read it, these words are too foreign for you to comprehend. They tell you, in time, you will understand. In time, you will be just like your father.

You were raised to love the brush. The black ink soaks into the paper after every skilled and thoughtful stroke. They praise your art and tell you they have never seen such talent from such a young boy – _truly Master Zhong Yao’s son_ , they said. They have you imitating the styles of the ancient philosophers they had mastered, whom your father had mastered, and whom you, too, will master in time. In time, you will be just like your father.

You were raised to love Laozi. Confucius. Fu Xi. Writings that transcend the very minds of the commoners around you, they said. Your mother sits beside you and reads the _Xiaojing_ , the _Analects_ , the _Shijing_ and the _Shujing_ , and it is enough to make your head spin. You spend hours memorizing, reciting, complimenting someone you have never met, and will never meet. You do not question it, they do not tell you to question it, and you would never do anything they did not tell you to do, because in time you will be just like your father.

You were raised to spend your time studying and honing your craft, but eventually and inevitably, you get bored. And so you find every opportunity to sneak away and lose yourself in the fiction of others – of the common people, of heroes, of villains, of those who play outside in ways you never have. You come to realize you love the stories with happy endings - you want a happy ending, too.

Your mother finds you reading by the dim light of a dying candle one night. _Go to sleep_ , _little Zhong Hui_ , the way your name floats from her lips sounds like a song. _I’m sorry mother, I only wanted to know what happened_. You apologize; you could never lie to your mother the way you lie to the scholars. She laughs at the stories you read and sits beside you. _I will tell you a story then_ , she says, and her words become the silky ink that paints portraits of cloudy mountaintops and shimmering rivers, her voice sings of ancient heroes who fought and died for the ones they loved, for the beautiful maidens who descended from the very heavens themselves, and the mythical dragons and phoenixes that perhaps once dotted the sky in a ferocious stream of color, of song, and of life. You dream of your own freedom outside the confines of your studies. You dream of a happy ending. You do not want to be just like your father.

You were raised to watch the other children play outside without you. _A smart boy such as yourself does not associate himself with the common people_ , they told you. You drown out the laughter outside in reciting the philosophical debates you have spent the past month rehearsing without sleep. They tell you your skills do not require companionship; they tell you to study harder, read your father’s commentary on the _Yijing_ , on Laozi, on Confucius. Your eyes sting with a familiar sadness. You want a happy ending.

Your mother smoothes back your hair when she catches you in tears sitting in the darkness of your unlit room. You ask her not to tell anyone of your sadness - the ancient warriors did not cry when they fell, the last dragon did not cry before its end. _The stars at night have seen you cry_ , she tells you. She gently carries you to bed and tucks you in. _Your tears are not a weakness_ , she says. She reads to you that night, stories of young curious heroes from far, far away. You cry harder. You want a happy ending.

The first time you are at a loss for words is in front of a pale skinned girl with long windswept hair and pink lips that shimmer along with her laugh, and she is _radiant_. When she smiles, your cheeks feel hot, your palms feel damp, your heart pounds against the restricting cavity of your chest. You hate this feeling of helplessness, you hate this vulnerability. You hate feeling so lost for words when you were made to learn them, recite them, _become_ them. You hate that she is smiling at someone else. You want a happy ending.

_The good man does not grieve that other people do not recognize his merits,_ your mother recites, because she knows of your heartbreak.

_His only anxiety is lest he should fail to recognize theirs_ , you continue _, from The Analects, mother, everyone knows that._

_No, you only know that because I taught it to you._ She smiles, and then pauses, as if a thought landed on the tip of her tongue as she spoke. _Shiji,_ the name flows from her lips like wind chimes caught in a spring breeze.

_Shiji?_  It doesn’t sound nearly as nice from yours.

Shiji.

The Sima family comes for you eventually. You call yourself the _Chosen One_ in front of them as if it means something, and after a while you aren’t sure if you believe it yourself, or if you’re only repeating the recited words of the past. They laugh and believe you to be of some worth, and they spare you. You join them, but you mean nothing to them, not now, not yet

Your best friend was alive once, you remember as you stare down at his grave. You remember what it felt like to be loved so dearly by another, you wish you could have shown him the love he deserves in return while he was still here; you should have done many things while he was still here. You wonder if that bothered him; had the stars ever seen him cry? You knew his tears were never a weakness. You wish you had seen him until the end. You hope he wasn’t alone. You buy a toy for your dead Wang Bi’s little daughter and never give it to her.

_You spend too much time reading and not enough time working_ , the Simas tell you, _the Yijing is an outdated philosophy in this era, it does little in times of war. But it’s good to have such an educated youth in this day and age. Your father would be very proud._ In the end, that’s all that mattered, isn’t it? You were raised to be just like your father. You are nothing but a small copy of your greater father. You don’t see why any of this matters. You never knew your father, anyway.

_The stars at night have seen you cry_ , your mother tells you again as she tenderly caresses your face with her hand and wipes away your sadness, _your tears are not a weakness_. You hold her hand to your cheek and weep as she lays dying. _Mother_ , you manage through your flowing tears, _what should I do? Please don’t leave me, please don’t…_

_Zhong Hui_ , your name still sounds like chiming bells flowing sweetly from her lips, _my sweet child, please do not cry. Please love yourself, you are not your father_. Even now, her brown eyes reflect deep golden sunbeams into your heart. You so badly want a happy ending.

You watch them lower your mother into the ground and as the wind stirs the long blades of grass around you, you hear your mother’s words. You are not your father, and she is right. You are so much more. You deserve so much more.

Sima Shi is the first to gain your trust, and he does so incredibly. You devote your time and your abilities to your new lord. You want to see him thrive, you want to see him conquer, you want to see the land he desires to create. He stands tall and his ambition outweighs everything you’ve ever known, and everything you’ve been taught to know. He is brilliant. He glimmers in your eyes as the ancient heroes of old, dancing through the stories of your childhood. And like these ancient heroes, he fell all too soon.

Sima Zhao laughs without a care at any mention of ambition. You cannot understand him, he is nothing like the warriors in the stories your mother painted for you. He does not deserve you, and soon you realize how much time you’ve spent subservient under those who do not respect you. The scholars, the Cao family, the Sima family... You are so much more than what they think of you. You are not your father, but that is all they see. You are so much more than that.

You can hear the camp whispering about you, they say you don’t care about anything but glory, but victory, but yourself. They say you believe you are this so-called _Chosen One_ to lead the kingdom to victory. _The Chosen One_? You hear, _Who has chosen him? I certainly didn’t_. You laugh, perhaps, and do not correct them because you know it is true.

You haven’t had a friend in so long you forget what it’s like to have one. Deng Ai smiles kindly, sits with you and offers to share his stories. And yet, you think, he continues to outdo you in everything? How long will you allow yourself to be bested by _him_? _You_ are the Chosen One, not him. You did not suffer through years of your schooling to be outsmarted by a man as uneducated as he. He tells you he never knew his father either. He says your mother raised you well. Deep down you desire a companion but his friendship means nothing to you if you are unwilling to accept it.

You quietly watch Jiang Wei sob when he thinks no one can see him. He buries his face in an old musty robe – you know of its importance to him, you know of his devotion to the late Sleeping Dragon, but you say nothing. What a pitiful man, you think, someone who allows himself to be so lost, so unguided, does not deserve to live the stories of your heroes of old. Not like this. _The stars at night have seen you cry_ , you want to tell him, but his tears are his weakness. You leave him be.

But he turns and meets your eyes and your breath catches at the infuriated helplessness in his, the realization that Jiang Wei is no longer there, and perhaps he hasn’t been for a very long time. What was driving him? Benevolence, the aged idea of those who had fallen well before him? Insanity, the result of being left alone to carry the weight of a dying kingdom on his shoulders? Perhaps you can relate.

It’s a sign from the Heavens themselves, Jiang Wei says, tells you, convinces you. You were chosen to be the future of Shu, the smartest, brighter than the lord you serve under. That night you dream you are bitten by serpents, and Jiang Wei laughs and tells you it is an auspicious sign, a lucky message. _You are the Chosen One_ , he continues, _you can do anything_.

And indeed, you are the Chosen One, the splendid son, the tactician who could rule the land, the greatest advisor who only led his lords to victory and to the spoils of war, who fought for glory, for honor, for what is rightfully yours. You know this is true, you deserve the honor more than anyone else. You know this truth so well you almost don’t feel the blade enter your side and snap inside your lung.

You don’t know the soldier who stands before you with the blood on his hands and the look of anger and horror gleaming through his eyes. You threaten him harshly because you’re not going to die, you _know_ you’re not going to die, you _can’t_ die. You’re the Chosen One, you still have so much more to accomplish. You ignore the blood rushing past your lips, you ignore the hot metallic staining your tongue.

You can’t, you haven’t won yet. Don’t slouch, your mother raised you better than that. Look at the soldier when he’s speaking, pretend to understand though you can’t hear much of what he is saying to you. Think of your victory, think of your glory, think of your mother who must have been so proud to have you as her son. Her Splendid Son, her Chosen One, her studious little boy who held the future in his hands and the world on his shoulders. She gave you that world, it was yours and yours alone.

You don’t remember the first time you were called the future of Wei, but you never fought it. You liked how it sounded and the way your name chimed gently in the wind through your mothers lips. You don’t remember how you got on the ground with arrows in your back, but with the dirt on your face and blood on your chest you think about your mother and the stars at night. Your tears were not your weakness. They never were.

You were killed on a day when the sun shone brightest in the sky.

As your vision fades around you, you think of your father, who left and burdened you with the responsibility of his unwanted legacy. You think of Jiang Wei, now alone to fight the losing battle. You think of Deng Ai and how you’ve left his fate in the hands of death when he had only ever shown you kindness. You think of Sima Shi and you wonder if this is what death feels like. You think of Wang Bi and how you single handedly managed to ruin everything you have ever wanted. You think of your mother. You would have been her happy ending.

You think of love, you think of loss, you think of life, but the very last thing you remember is how much you loved happy endings. You are not your ancient heroes of the past. You are not the splendid creatures of myth. You are not the curious travelers on their long journeys. You used to love their happy endings.

And it is fitting, you think, that in the end you do not get one. And that’s the last thing you think.


End file.
